This Canyon Sucks
by Rhea-samma
Summary: Red vs Blue. Grif and Simmons agree-Blood Gulch totally sucks. T for language. Set before the series. Rated T for language. Characters belong to RoosterTeeth. Halo belongs to Microsoft and Bungie.


AN: I don't own Halo or Red vs Blue. Some of the language or terminology may not be 100% accurate since I have barely played the real game. Light GrifxSimmons. Set pre RvB.

**This Canyon Sucks**

Not much changed in Blood Gulch. Nothing ever seemed to change. Perhaps it was because the sun never set, stretching time into one eternal day, the same day with no sunrise or sunset.

Grif sighed for the hundredth time as he and Simmons stood on top of the Red Base—on the lookout for any Blue activity in the canyon. It _was_ literally, the one hundredth time he had sighed. Simmons had been keeping count. "Grif!" He snapped at his team mate, "That is the hundredth time you've sighed! _Stop. Doing. It!"_ The orange one snorted inside his helmet, a blast of air and static escaping his helmet.

"What else am I _supposed_ to do? You won't let me fall asleep in here, and there's nothing to do on this god-forsaken hunk of dirt." The maroon Spartan had to agree as he looked over the dead land before him. There was no sign of movement—enemy or otherwise.

"I don't see how you could fall asleep with the sun beating down all day."

"It's better than standing around with nothing to do. I wish there was a pond or something… I could at least learn how to skip rocks or something… _Then_ at least I would have done something _constructive_ with my career in the armed forces." Simmons was used to hearing such disparaging comments about the army from Grif, they didn't get him quite so riled up anymore. He had learned to accept that Private Dexter Grif simply had no ambition in his bones. Although Simmons wanted to do something worthwhile with his military career too—hopefully something that would result in a promotion. Simmons had also realized, however, that Grif was correct in his assessment. Blood Gulch was the least important outpost in the whole god-damned war.

"Yeah… this canyon sucks. There's no way I'll ever have a chance for a promotion. Even if we won here, we wouldn't get any medals for beating _these_ Blues." Grif was squatting down now, hugging his knees,

"I wonder if Command will drop off any water soon... Hey! We should ask them to build us a pool!" Simmons couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"What! A pool?"

"Yeah. A big one. That way, instead of sneaking off to sleep, I could go sneak off to skinny dip." Simmons shuddered inside his armor, which translated to a slight twitch on the outside.

"Skinny dipping! Out here! That's gross, Grif. Besides, you'd be cooked into Grif Soup within five minutes under this sun. If the water even lasted that long." The standing soldier peered up at the sun, still blinding even through his polarized, reflective visor.

"Yeah… this canyon sucks ass," Grif said petulantly. "I always thought I was gonna kill some aliens, mount their heads on a plaque, bring my trophies back to earth, get someone to write my memoirs for me, then make some sweet dough off of a bestseller, and then live the easy life for the rest of my days." Simmons blinked and glanced down at Grif.

"Oh my god! You actually had _a plan!_?" Grif was sitting down now, leaning back on his palms. He sounded a little defensive when he spoke,

"Shut up kiss-ass. Don't make it sound like I have _ambition_ or something."

"You were really gonna bring back trophies of aliens to earth?"

"Yeah! I figured it'd be great for my picture on the back of the book. I'd be standing there in front of the fireplace with a whole buncha alien heads mounted on the wall. I'd be wearing a fez and one of those rich-guy bathrobes too. Red velvet with my initials on it. Totally Classy. Instant bestseller." Simmons couldn't help the short static-filled chuckle that escaped him.

"I think you mean _velour_, there Louis Wu." The reference was lost on Grif.

"Huh?" Simmons sighed.

"Didn't you ever read—" Grif interrupted him in a firm voice,

"Simmons. I thought we established by now that _I. Never. Read._ You're the nerd here. Not me." Simmons sighed impatiently,

"_Ringworld._ It was a classic series of science fiction stories by Larry Niven. Actually, Ringworld was a _lot_ like this world. Only they also had shadow squares circling the sun to provide a night/day cycle…. Lucky bastards." Simmons had all of the various Ringworld novels in his room. He was secretly fascinated that someone living so long ago could have predicted a "planet" similar to the Installations. The only thing he had gotten wrong of course was the whole shadow square thing. Oh and the fact that there was an abundance of water, indigenous flora and fauna, and _anything remotely interesting on one of these goddamn "Halos."_

"So wait, wait, wait… You're telling me, that some guy already imagined this place back before we were born _and_ wrote an entire _series_ about this place?" Simmons sighed,

"Not _here_ exactly.. just a structure _like_ this…. And there were a lot more alien and cool stuff going on." Simmons always felt the need to defend his literature when talking to Grif. Even though he _knew_ it was the other Private who was the worse off for being poorly-read and unintelligent, Grif still had that tone that made Simmons re-experience old feelings of shame and humiliation buried deep in his childhood. Surprisingly though, Grif seemed to think for a moment.

"Yeah I guess that makes sense. No one could ever write a best-seller about this fucking patch of dirt." He sounded a bit… hurt? The orange-clad soldier hurled a pebble off the top of the base. "I hate this place," Grif said it with a bit more vigor than usual.

Simmons didn't know what to say… he had never really thought Grif even had any dreams or aspirations. Maybe the orange Spartan was experiencing the hurt that accompanies the death of a dream? Simmons knew that pain all too well. It was part of the reason he had ended up joining the Spartan program. All his previous goals on earth had already failed. Now his dream of a successful military career was dead too. He was such a fucking failure. Even his small dream, now, of having a father-son relationship with his CO and subordinates who respected him was out of the question too. Simmons' voice was touched with melancholy as he agreed with Grif.

"Yeah… this canyon fucking sucks." There was a pause as Simmons tried to think of something to lighten the mood a little bit, "You might like those books though. There's… there's.. sex." The maroon Spartan was blushing beneath his reflective visor. Grif laughed softly,

"Definitely not this place then." Grif was fumbling with a scrunched and beat-up carton, trying to wiggle a cigarette out of the thoroughly smashed and weakened box. "Don't smoke up here while we're on guard duty," Simmons' rebuke was automatic. "Those things are terrible for you." Even the severe legislation in the early 21st century hadn't changed the terrible properties of cigarettes all these years later.

"What the fuck do you care? We're supposed to be at war Simmons._ Theoretically_, we could die at any moment. What difference does it make if I get cancer in my lungs? Anything that gets me off this stupid rock and out of this war faster is fine by me." Grif hadn't started smoking until he'd joined up. However, he had made up for lost time by chain smoking and learning how to smoke inside his helmet—the most valuable thing he had learned in basic training.

Simmons was taken aback by Grif's outburst. Sometimes he forgot just how philosophical Private Dexter Grif could truly be underneath the sloth and complete disregard for their Commanding Officer. Grif mistook his silence as agreement and continued speaking, "That's what I thought." Grif flipped up the visor and stuck the cig between his lips lighting the end with a small, almost exhausted lighter.

"Hey I care!" Simmons surprised himself with his outburst. Grif's eyes glanced over to Simmons with a look of withering contempt. The maroon soldier felt as though his heavy suit of armor was made of paper when Grif's dark eyes speared through him as sharply as any piercing round from the enemy's sniper rifle. (At least, if their enemies had ever managed to hit any of them with it.)

"Don't bullshit me Simmons." Simmons hated this part of their dance the most. Every time he tried to genuinely and straightforwardly express _some_ sort of positive emotion towards Grif, the orange private would suddenly put up a wall and refuse to acknowledge any sincerity on Simmons' end. Was the lazy man so twisted that he could only conceive of their friendship—a rocky, annoying, tumultuous friendship to be sure—only in negative terms?

"I'm not bullshitting Grif. _I caaaaaaaaaaaare._" He dragged out the word in a condescending tone. Perhaps he could trick the other Private into accepting a normal aspect of camaraderie?

"Fine. If you care so much, give me your lungs when I need new ones." Grif chuckled darkly to himself, sucking on the paper cylinder ironically stuffed with more vegetation than was in the entire canyon. Simmons rolled his eyes beneath his helmet.

"You stupid cockbite," even though his tone was frustrated, Simmons' voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Yeah, I guess I am kinda stupid," Grif agreed amicably. He wasn't a total moron though. He knew pity when he saw it. And the last thing on this god-forsaken not-earth he wanted was the pity of Private Richard Simmons. Also, he felt a bit…. Uncomfortable whenever Simmons tried to be all 'buddy buddy' with him. Whenever Simmons tried to be nice, Grif could suddenly only think about things like how long it had been since he'd seen a girl in the flesh, or those handful of frat parties he had crashed and gotten _way too_ smashed at, or his first 'girlfriend,'or how long it had been since he'd gotten laid, or just how _isolated_ they were from the rest of the galaxy.

Simmons being nice could only lead to bad, regretful things. (And even someone as uncultured as _Grif_ knew what _else_ ancient Spartans were famous for—and even though asses were involved, it was _not_ the kicking of them.) _Fuck. I've been in the military too long,_ the draftee thought to himself. _Why didn't any of these alien civilizations build their damn outposts closer to peep shows?_ Grif was the one to glance up at the sun this time. Everything seemed to wither and die underneath this sun. What would happen if they were still stationed here five years from now? Would his heterosexuality even die under this alien sun as well? Grif groaned softly to himself. Simmons trying to bring up sex earlier didn't help matters either.

It was much easier to return to a safe, familiar subject, "This canyon sucks balls." Grif threw another pebble, the small rock disappearing amidst the dirt below. Simmons sighed this time, and agreed with him.

"Yeah. It really does."

"D'you think Command would send us a magnifying glass if we asked for one? At least then we could maybe try and find some ants to fry."

"I don't know if I've even seen any ants around here."

"Then what the hell are we supposed to fry under the magnifying lens, huh!"

"The magnifying lens that we don't even have," Simmons reminded Grif.

"Oh yeah…" Another sigh. "You'd think some sort of ancient, advanced alien mega-structure like this wouldn't have a place this god-damn _boring_ on it! Wish I'd been smart enough to dodge the draft." Anything would have been better than this slow death under the Blood Gulch sun.

"At least our suits have climate control." Simmons was trying to grasp at anything positive at the moment. It would be far too depressing to give in to Grif's statements.

"That just means no sunbathing. This place is Hell, Simmons." The lazy soldier was laying on his back now, knees and feet dangling over the base in one of the open spaces between concrete bunkers.

"See, this is why reading is so great. You _aren't_ stuck in some remote little box canyon with a little imagination and a good storyteller." Grif groaned from his place on the concrete.

"_Thanks_ Reading Rainbow." Grif frowned, flicking some of his ash to one side for a moment. If only Simmons was wearing pink armor instead. That would have made his insult _much_ more effective. "If I want to read I'll just pull out an issue of _Penthouse_." Grif smiled in a satisfied manner as he heard Simmons stutter and flounder inside his regrettably not-pink armor.

"Grif! Don't be disgusting!" The orange Private shrugged, or tried to, and flicked aside his ash again.

"Hey, I'm not the one with a shelf full of dirty sci-fi books." Simmons spluttered again.

"I-! Th-! You! That—that's completely different! The sex in those stories is completely justified!" Grif couldn't help but smile at the slight edge of panic in Simmons'voice. (Even though they were returning to the subject Grif had earlier tried to avoid.) Simmons was looking up at the sun again, hoping fervently that he might melt on the spot. He was always thankful that Grif never delved _too_ deeply into either of their personal experiences. Of which there was not much for Simmons. His knowledge was mostly of a theoretical nature. Simmons suddenly came to an unpleasant realization. Even though he'd always _known_ it, he'd never really thought much into it until just now. "Grif!" The orange Private looked up at Simmons, even pushing himself into a sitting position,

"What?" Simmons felt slightly embarrassed for what he was about to say,

"There's…. there's no _girls _here! We're _lightyears_ away from any girls at all!" Simmons found himself wishing Grif was smoking _inside_ his helmet as the other looked at him. He felt his posture wilting slightly, "I mean.. yeah I always knew that but… I didn't really _think_ about it until just now….. Fuck. I'll never have a girlfriend now." Grif's expression changed to one of shock and then absolute glee. Simmons felt something terrible, slimy, and leaden fall into the pit of his stomach at that look.

"_You've never had a girlfriend!_" Simmons stiffened defensively as Grif grabbed his stomach and started to laugh. The maroon Spartan turned away and glanced at the dirt below them, vainly hoping for some sort of enemy movement to end this conversation. No such luck. Grif was wiping his eyes now. "Aaaah hahahaha. I should have guessed. Though I always pictured you going out with some type of I dunno… librarian or Sunday School teacher." He snickered a bit unkindly. Simmons' lips were pressed into a tight, white line behind his visor. Grif started to slowly realize that Simmons wasn't screaming back at him as usual. His expression fell and became a little bit more solemn. "Simmons…? Are you in there…?" The maroon armor might has well have been empty for all the response Simmons was giving him. Grif's expression changed again. He looked slightly panicked or worried. "H-hey… Simmons? Aren't you going to tell me I'm a mother-fucking cockbite or something?" Still no answer. Grif racked his brains for something to say. Something that might fix the situation between them. "Hey, it's not that bad really! My first girlfriend turned out to have a dick!" Beneath his helmet, Richard's jaw dropped. The flood of blood to Grif's face told him well enough that the story was real, but a terse, shocked 'Bullshit!' still escaped him. Grif laughed nervously.

"I'm not kidding! I was only 15 too, so I'd never even heard of anything like it before—or seen any porn like that yet." Simmons found himself sliding down to the ground, staring at Grif incredulously underneath his helmet. He couldn't believe his ears!

"Are you fucking serious?" He couldn't believe that Grif was even _sharing_ this with him. "How can you even _talk_ about it!" If it were Simmons, he'd have died of the shame and repressed the hell out of that memory. Grif shrugged,

"Cuz it's almost a funny story now? And because I felt like I owed you one just now?" Well _that_ was certainly true. Grif _did _owe him after laughing at him like that.

"…..How… how did you…?"

"Find out?"

"Now know!" Grif rolled his eyes,

"I didn't know because _she_ had the most amazing rack I'd ever seen! Did you think I went out with a guy or something? Jeez. Well.. I guess I kinda did…" Grif made a face. Simmons was shaking his head in disbelief.

"In-fucking-credible…." Grif laughed at himself a little bit.

"Yeah… I didn't handle the situation too well either." He didn't like to think back on that poorly-handled encounter. He _almost_ felt like sharing what had gone on at some of those frat parties, but Simmons was probably shocked enough for one day. Another shock like that might give the other Private a heart attack. "Those tits were still amazing though…" Simmons was mortified,

"_GRIF!"_ His cigarette was finished, he rubbed the spent end of the butt on the concrete with a laugh. He flicked a button on his helmet and his visor slid back down. Simmons suddenly felt more comfortable. Now he couldn't see the face of the sick degenerate sitting across from him. Guiltily, he cast a glance back out at the canyon. It was still as empty as ever. "Fuck. Those Blues are as lazy as you are Grif." Grif seemed to take offense at this,

"Hey! _Nobody_ is more lazy that Private Dexter Grif!" Simmons decided he had emulated the other soldier long enough and stood up again. He was glad they had shifted away from the uncomfortable truths they had both exchanged. He was slightly relieved too—Grif hadn't teased him nearly as much as he had feared.

"Yeah, I know. Stand up. You've sat around on your fat, lazy, ass long enough." Grif protested and slowly got to his feet.

"Woaaaaahh..! My ass… is not fat!" He sounded almost winded from standing up.

"The way you keep eating Oreos, it will be soon."

"Oreos _rule_." Simmons just snorted softly.

"Fine, but I'm not carrying you off the field of battle if you get injured." Grif rolled his eyes,

"Field of battle! Here! You must be shitting me. The potshots we exchange with the Blues do _not_ count as a field of battle." Simmons looked once more at the dead and lifeless patch of dirt that stretched out before them, hemmed in on either side by tall, towering stone.

"….Yeeaaaah. Yeah. You're right." Simmons agreed with a sigh. His armor-clad boot scuffed at the omnipresent dirt. "This canyon sucks." Grif nodded in sage agreement.

Blood Gulch completely, utterly, totally, and unquestionably—_fucking sucked._


End file.
